The River Nymph

by Shirl Henke

  “Clint—”

  He muttered an oath and cupped her head, pulling her against his body with his other arm. His mouth savaged hers. No subtle, nuanced seduction, this. No, this was raw, primitive, lustful. An affirmation of life…and something more. His hand pressed her jaw, literally prying open her lips for his invading tongue. He slanted his head, shifting position, pressing her lower body against the straining erection in his breeches. She could feel the arousal through the thin cloth separating them and for a moment wondered if he would throw her to the floor and rape her.

  Delilah had never seen him lose control this way. It was…savage. She pushed her hands against his chest, trying to get free, writhing away from the bulge in his pants that probed the vee of her legs.

  Suddenly, he released her and she stumbled backward. Her mouth burned from the abrasion of his whiskers. She raised one hand to touch her lips and found that it was trembling. All thoughts of the illegal whiskey had fled. She dared not speak to him while he was in this state.

  As he silently strode on bare feet to the unconscious roustabout and knelt with a length of rope to tie him up, she fled toward the stairs and the safety of her cabin.

  Neither of them noticed the tall, thin form hidden in the shadows, nor saw him uncock the Colt pocket revolver gripped in his uninjured hand.

  Chapter Ten

  The air held the tang of spring and a warm breeze ruffled her hair, allowing it to blow gently around her shoulders. But Delilah did not notice. All she could think about was the man standing at the opposite end of the deck from her, talking with their first mate, Mr. Iversen. Clint Daniels wore a plain cotton shirt with the collar open and the sleeves rolled up, revealing the golden hair on his chest and arms. Heavy black twill breeches clad his long legs. His tall boots were scuffed and creased. Work boots!

  The outfit was made for heavy labor, not lounging in a salon. He could have been a mate or engineer instead of part owner of the vessel. But he was a gambler. He’s ready to risk my boat for the quick profit from illegal whiskey.

  She had talked with her uncle earlier in the morning about the whiskey, but told him nothing of what had occurred between her and Daniels after Riley’s man had been taken from the boat. Horace startled her by revealing that he knew about the contraband. “The intent of the law is to keep whiskey from falling into the hands of warring tribes along the river. The army cares nothing about sales to thirsty gold miners in Montana Territory. The worst that might happen is having to give a modest bribe to the inspector,” he assured her.

  “Just so long as the bribe money comes out of Mr. Daniels’s pocket, not ours,” she retorted.

  “He has already agreed to that, my dear.”

  Delilah was not happy about the matter, but Mr. Iversen and the captain had both given her assurances that the profits were well worth the risks. The mate even showed her the ingenious method for hiding the whiskey barrels when inspectors came aboard, dropping them over the stern of the boat in rope nets so they’d be hidden beneath the paddle wheels.

  She returned her thoughts to Clint, watching the breeze catch his hair. He shoved it from his forehead, gesturing to the cargo that had been stored on the hurricane deck in the space that had formerly been Riley’s gambling salon, the very place where she had won the boat from Daniels. If he noticed her glaring at him, he gave no indication, but turned his attention back to Iversen. Clint didn’t appear dangerous in the morning light. But he certainly had the preceding night. She had seen something in those glowing gray eyes that was savage—not the wildness of unbridled lust, but something…other. Just what it was, she could not guess, but it troubled her.

  She was traveling nearly three thousand miles with a complete stranger. They would be in close proximity, unable to avoid each other unless she hid in her cabin like a mouse. That was something Delilah Mathers Raymond had not done since Lee and his Confederate forces invaded her town and destroyed it. But she had been a green seventeen-year-old girl then. Now she was a battle-hardened survivor…just as he was. But still she found her feelings toward him unsettling. What had turned him from her protector to her attacker?

  In retrospect, she realized that it had been irresponsible of her to venture to the lower deck unarmed, in the dark of night. She and her uncle had speculated with Captain Dubois and—yes, Mr. Daniels—about the possibility that one or more of the replacement roustabouts he’d recruited might have been Riley’s men. But that did not explain Daniels’s actions once he had disposed of the man who’d tried to kill her. After fleeing upstairs, she had watched from her cabin window while he and Iversen hauled her attacker down the gangplank and up the levee. She suspected they had taken the man and dumped him on the doorstep of Riley’s saloon.

  Her troubling thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the noise and vibration of the steam engines being fired up inpreparation for departure. The very floorboards beneath her feet seemed ready to jar apart. She stumbled and grabbed the railing to orient herself to the alien sensation. Her only other time on a steamer had been crossing the Gulf to New Orleans several years earlier for a high-stakes poker game. But that had been with placid seas aboard a huge side-wheeler. This felt totally different.

  Placing her fear of Daniels and worries about the whiskey aside, she felt the excitement hum through her blood. It was time to cast off! She wanted to be in the wheelhouse with Captain Dubois, who had invited her to join him for a bird’s-eye view of the river and levee as they departed. Carefully Delilah made her way to her cabin for a wrap. In spite of the warm day, once they were under full steam in the fast-moving current, the wind would be chilly.

  Horace watched her enter her cabin and then shifted his gaze to Daniels. Their partner was not as uninterested in his niece as he had appeared to be a moment ago. After witnessing the scene on the main deck last night, Horace had to reassess whether his initial intuition about Clinton Daniels had been correct. The best way was to speak with the person who had known him the longest, the one dearest to him—his young sister Sky.

  He would do just that. But first he wanted to witness their departure with his niece. He joined Delilah on her climb up to the small wheelhouse perched on top of the boiler deck. The small single room had windows on all four sides, allowing the pilot a 360-degree view of the treacherous river. Just as he called out to her, a shrill whistle pierced his eardrums. He watched her climb the steep stairs with cheeks flushed by excitement. For better or worse, they were on their way upriver with Clint. Now he only prayed it had not been a mistake to make the journey.

  Delilah stood behind Captain Dubois after exchanging greetings with him, watching in rapt awe as the big paddlewheel at the rear of the boat began to churn up the water. “The vibration is incredible. Is everything all right?” she asked.

  Dubois smiled reassuringly. “This is perfectly normal. Only wait until we’re in the main channel, forcing our way against the current. Then the vibrations will grow worse.” At her look of dismay, he went on, “You will get used to it. My engineers are very careful not to overtax the boilers. Have no fear that the boat will explode.”

  Delilah sighed in relief. “If you say it’s safe, then I have no fear.” At least she had none about the boat. As to other matters …

  Horace entered the Spartan wheelhouse and made a quick visual inspection as he greeted his niece and the captain. A small cot in one corner and an iron stove for heat in cold weather were the only furnishings. The centerpiece of the cramped quarters was the giant wooden-handled wheel facing the bow of the boat. “Do you sleep on that?” Horace gestured to the cot incredulously.

  Jacques Dubois smiled. “I would only do so in extremity, I assure you, M’sieur Mathers. My second pilot is a man I’ve known for twenty years. With him spelling me, I am able to rest in my cabin. Having two pilots in the wheelhouse is a precaution when captains choose not to berth at night but travel by moonlight.”

  “I thought the river was too dangerous to do that,” Delilah said, her uneasiness retur
ning.

  “Tut, I found the cot and ignored it. Neither I nor M’sieur Hagadorn intend to run by night. We will not be on the river in heavy rain either. One must see the serene surface of the Big Muddy to navigate safely.”

  Delilah looked out at the rushing water and did not see a trace of serenity in its unfathomable depths. And this was the Mississippi, known to be far safer than the Missouri! But she held her peace as gangplanks were pulled aboard, hawsers untied and coiled up. Everything was secured and ready. Captain Dubois tugged on the whistle, signaling the engineers below that the boat was backing away from the levee. As the spoon-shaped bow began its slow turn away from the shallows beneath the captain’s skillful steersmanship, she could feel herexcitement build again. Danger be damned! Clinton Daniels be damned, too! She was going to be a rich woman of business, independent and owing no man but her beloved uncle.

  Horace watched as Dubois centered the boat’s bow in the channel, pointed north to the confluence with the Missouri just above the city. When he looked down at Delilah’s face, he could see triumph written all over it. If only things worked out as they planned…He excused himself and headed in search of Sky.

  Sky carefully arranged her blue cotton skirt on the small settee in her cabin’s sitting room as she looked over at Horace Mathers. “There is much you need to understand about my brother…you and your niece, although I doubt she’s willing to confess her interest yet.”

  Horace suppressed a smile at the young woman’s acumen. “No, Delilah can be…headstrong, but I’ve sensed her interest in our new business associate from their first meeting—and his in her. Initially, I believed it would work out well for both of them, but after last night…” He had already outlined what occurred after Clint had rescued Delilah from Riley’s henchman.

  “I am not certain it’s my place to tell you everything. It would be best if Delilah heard the whole story from my brother. But I will say this: He is a good man who has endured much suffering. When he caught three soldiers under his command raping me and my older sister Teal, he rescued us. He told our father that he was shamed by the blue coat and would never wear it again. He became one of us and married Teal.”

  Horace’s body moved ever so slightly, giving away his surprise. “He has a wife?”

  Sky’s expression darkened. “She is dead now…killed by a Pawnee raiding party while the men in our village were away hunting. After that, Clint’s grief knew no bounds. He avenged her death by killing many of them.” She shuddered. “It’s for him to explain the rest.”

  “Is that why he’s called Lightning Hand?”

  Sky shook her head. “No, that was because he killed the three blue coats before they could fire a shot, although all were armed.”

  “He does have a reputation as a fast gun on the river,” Horace said, turning over in his mind Clint’s Southern drawl and trying to reconcile it with a blue uniform. He had a feeling that what Daniels had done to retaliate for his wife’s death was better left unknown. Instead, he asked, “Was he a galvanized Yankee, perchance?”

  Sky smiled now. “Yes. But that, too, is a story for him to tell,” she replied enigmatically. “I have known him since I was eleven years old and, as I said, he is a good man. He brought me here and paid for my education.”

  “And now he’s taking you home to your people.”

  She nodded. “Yes…but…” Her hands, clasped together, began to twist nervously. At once, she forced herself to relax and smooth her skirt again.

  “But it would be better for him to return here, not remain with them?” he said gently.

  Sky’s blue eyes were dark and troubled, yet she smiled at Horace. “You, too, are a good man—and a very perceptive one as well, Uncle Horace.”

  “Thank you, child.”

  They pulled into a small outpost just below St. Charles to fuel up early that afternoon. The boat’s hungry engines demanded huge quantities of wood to keep the boilers pushing steam through the pipes to drive the engine. When they tied up for the night, they would have burned most of the wood on board and would require another load. Delilah knew they were short of roustabouts, already having lost one, but she was surprised to see Clint stride ashore with the mate.

  After a brief negotiation with the woodhawk, a tall, emaciated man in ragged leather breeches and a filthy flannel shirt, Daniels paid the fellow. But instead of returning to the deck, he joined the men loading bundles of wood on their backsand toting them up the gangplank to the open deck in front of the boilers. As sweat plastered his thin cotton shirt to his torso, his muscles were outlined, indecently appealing. Of course, all the other men were equally sweat-soaked but none held the slightest attraction for her.

  Why him, of all the men on earth?

  His straight, dark gold hair hung in lank damp hunks around his sun-darkened face. Now and then he’d stop and wipe the perspiration from his eyes with his forearm. Her mouth went dry just looking at the flexing glisten of his skin. She tried to remember how frightened she’d been of his fierce, brutal kiss last night, but in spite of it, she could not stop looking at him. Then, as if sensing her, he raised his head and locked gazes with her. His face was grim, his mouth an angry slash, as he continued up the gangplank with his burden.

  Delilah turned and walked away, considering what his expression meant. Was he sorry for what he’d done? Or still furious with her for being on the main deck late at night? More likely the latter. She doubted if the arrogant lout had ever apologized for anything in his life.

  Clint watched her stalk off. The sun caught the red highlights in her dark hair and the yellow dress she wore set off the faint golden glow of her skin. His groin tightened as her hips swayed with every step. Last night he’d nearly done something unforgivable. The woman drove him to distraction. Yet neither she nor he appeared able to control their attraction for each other. He muttered an oath and hurled his load of wood onto the pile in front of the boiler’s steaming maw.

  Why her, of all the women on earth?

  Bathed, shaved and dressed in fresh clothing, Clint sat in the dining room of the Nymph, hunched over a table with a glass of Who Shot John in his hand. He looked down at the bourbon, then tossed it back, polishing off the glass. As he reached for the bottle, his sister’s voice interrupted.

  “Will that give you the courage to apologize to her? Idon’t think you’ll find it in the bottom of a bottle, Elder Brother.”

  He set the bottle back on the table and turned to her. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Uncle Horace told me what happened between you and Delilah last night. He heard the fight and came down just after you’d dealt with Riley’s man.”

  “Great! Now he’ll probably shoot me.” Clint reached for the bottle again.

  “I think not. He is an exceedingly good judge of character. He’ll give you the benefit of the doubt…this time. But I wouldn’t try his patience any further.” She came over and took a seat across the table from Clint. “Put the bottle down and tell me what you’re going to say to Delilah.”

  He did as she asked, then combed his fingers through his hair, muttering, “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Women!”

  She placed her hand over his gently. “No, I am not. I can see when you’re hurting and I understand why. Which is the reason you must apologize. If you didn’t already know that yourself, you wouldn’t be sitting here stewing.”

  He looked up, his expression grim. “She’ll gloat. She’ll probably throw things, maybe even use that little pea-shooter of hers on me.”

  “Better that than Uncle Horace’s more formidable Colt,” Sky said dryly.

  “I’m only doing this because we’re business partners and can’t afford to be at each other’s throats for the rest of the trip.”

  As he stood up and began to put on his jacket, which he’d hung across the back of his chair, Sky hid her smile. “Just so you make a handsome apology,” was all she said.

  “Yep, I’ll use my Southern charm. We both kno
w how much she likes that.”

  Like a man facing execution, Clint walked to Delilah’s cabin and paused before the door. Dinner was in half an hour and he had to get this over with before they were forced to sit at a table together with her glaring daggers at him…or, fearfully looking away. No, she was too much woman to do that in spite of his abysmal behavior last night. He’d seen her watching him this afternoon. If she were afraid, she wouldn’t have stood out on the deck and stared down at him as he toiled with the roustabouts.

  Delilah Mathers Raymond was calm, brave and incredibly self-possessed—when she wasn’t displaying the devil’s own temper. Then bravery became reckless abandon. Somehow the vision of her with green eyes flashing and a gun in her hand ignited a fire deep in his belly. How in hell could he desire a woman he mostly wanted to strangle? Sighing in resignation, he raised his hand and knocked.

  “I have something to say to you, Deelie. Please.”

  Inside, Delilah had heard his approach and peeked through the window curtains, watching as he stood motionless for several moments before he announced his presence. I bet he choked on the please part. Deelie, indeed! He was dressed in what she had come to think of as his gambler attire, an expensive dark suit, ruffled white shirt and polished black boots. He looked obscenely handsome. She made him wait for several more moments, then opened the door.

  “Yes, Mr. Daniels?” she asked coolly, not inviting him to enter.

  She wore one of her best gowns, a deep violet silk with a low neckline and clever cap sleeves. The neckline and skirt hem were trimmed with matching violet lace. She knew the cut of the dress emphasized her cleavage and small waist. As his eyes swept over her, she felt an odd frisson of excitement mixed with perversely pleasurable fear.

  Clint glanced away from the incredible enticement of her body, checking up and down the walkway to be certain no one was near. “This is very personal business. It might be better if I spoke my piece in private.” He gestured toward the sitting room behind her. “Unless you’re afraid to let me in. I’d understand if—”